A Place of Hiding

He glanced from his sister to Deborah, saying, “Sure. I’ll put those in water.” He scooped up the two grocery bags and hooked his arm round the flowers. He said to Deborah, “Later, then,” and gave her a look that spoke the words good luck as clearly as if he’d said them. He headed back along the pier. China watched him. “I know he means well. I know he’s worried. But having him here makes it worse. Like I have to contend with him along with the whole situation.” She clasped her arms round her body, which was the first moment that Deborah saw she was wearing only a sweater against the cold. Her cloak would still be with the police, of course. And that cloak was so much the crux of her problem.

Deborah said, “Where did you leave your cloak that night?”

China studied the water for a moment before saying, “The night of the party? It must have been in my room. I didn’t keep track of it. I’d been in and out all day, but I must’ve taken it upstairs at some point because when we got ready to leave that morning it was...I’m pretty sure it was lying across a chair. Next to the window.”

“You don’t remember putting it there?”

China shook her head. “It would’ve been an automatic thing, though. Wear it, take it off, toss it down. I’ve never been a neat freak. You know that.”

“So someone could have removed it, used it early that morning when Guy Brouard went to the bay, and then returned it?”

“I guess. But I don’t see how. Or even when.”

“Was it there when you went to bed?”

“It could have been.” She frowned. “I just don’t know.”

“Valerie Duffy swears she saw you following him, China.” Deborah said it as gently as she could. “Ruth Brouard claims she searched the house for you as well once she saw someone she thought was you from the window.”

“You believe them?”

“It’s not that,” Deborah said. “It’s whether there’s something that might have happened earlier that would make what they say sound reasonable to the police.”

“Something that happened?”

“Between you and Guy Brouard.”

“We’re back to that.”

“It’s not what I think. It’s what the police—”

“Forget it,” China interrupted. “Come with me.”

She led the way back along the pier. At the Esplanade, she crossed over without even a glance for traffic. She wound through several waiting buses at the town station and traced a zigzagging route to Constitution Steps, which shaped an inverted question mark on the side of one of the hills. These steps—like those Deborah had earlier descended to the market—

took them up to Clifton Street and the Queen Margaret Apartments. China led the way round the back to Flat B. She was inside and at the small kitchen table before she said another word.

Then it was “Here. Read this. If it’s the only way to make you believe, then you can check each grisly detail if you like.”

“China, I do believe you,” Deborah said. “You don’t need—”

“Don’t tell me what I don’t need,” China said insistently. “You think there’s a chance I’m lying.”

“Not lying.”

“All right. Something I might’ve misinterpreted. But I’m telling you, there’s nothing I could have misinterpreted. And nothing anyone else could’ve misinterpreted because nothing happened. Not between me and Guy Brouard. Not between me and anyone. So I’m asking you to read this for yourself. So that you can be sure.” Against her hand, she slapped the legal pad on which she’d made her account of the days she’d spent at LeReposoir.

“I believe your story,” Deborah said.

“Read” was China’s reply.

Deborah saw that nothing would satisfy her friend other than reading what she’d written. She sat at the table and took up the pad as China moved to the work top where Cherokee had left the grocery bags and the flowers before taking himself off somewhere else.

China had been very thorough, Deborah saw when she began reading her friend’s document. She displayed an admirable memory as well. Every interaction she’d had with the Brouards seemed accounted for, and when she’d not been with either Guy Brouard or his sister or both of them together, she’d accounted for that time as well. This had apparently been spent with Cherokee or often by herself as she took her photographs of the estate.

She’d documented where every interaction had occurred during her time at Le Reposoir. Thus, it was possible to track her movements, which was all for the good because surely someone would be able to confirm them.

Living room, she’d written, looking at historical pictures of L.R. Guy, Ruth,Cherokee, and Paul F. there. The time and day followed. Dining room, she went on, lunch with Guy, Ruth, Cherokee, Frank O.,and Paul F. AA comes in later, dessert time, with Duck and Stephen. Daggers atme. Many daggers at Paul F.

Study, she continued, with Guy, Frank O., and Cherokee, discussion aboutthe museum-to-be. Frank O. leaves. Cherokee goes with him to meet his dad andsee the water mill. Guy and I stay. Talk. Ruth comes in with AA. Duck outsidewith Stephen and Paul F.